


Someone Feared is Someone Pitiful

by skankiwi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28826406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skankiwi/pseuds/skankiwi
Summary: With a set determination that she had barely any reason for (save that this was a distractor from that unrelenting pull in her chest), she sprinted down the hall in silence and slid around the next corner. The footsteps had stopped, and they turned to see their pursuer.Malfoy looked shocked to see her.Hermione didn’t exactly know what brought her to ask where he was going.“It’s none of your business, Granger,” he said.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	Someone Feared is Someone Pitiful

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot hurt/comfort fic is set during sixth year, directly after Draco's failed attempts to use the Vanishing Cabinet. The one-sentence prompt inspiration for this fic is from the lovely @arianasacco3 on TikTok! I really took the whole "traumatic Draco" thing and ran with it here. Ariana, I hope this is something you enjoy!  
> My TikTok is @skankiwi! I will be holding more prompt competitions there in the future!
> 
> This was done in order to curb my unrelenting writers block--a goal which was quite successful. I ~almost~ forgot how much fun writing is.
> 
> UPDATING SOON

_ “If you look at their intentions, examine their motives, and scrutinize what brings them contentment – how can people hide who they are? How can they hide who they really are?” _

In the windowed corridor, no light escaped to touch Hermione’s face or tear into her eyes. She wished it would; she hated the ugly skies that gave no semblance of a new day--the ones that generously gave the still and peaceful night away to dull charcoal clouds and biting winds. The afternoon had teased rain, but didn’t allow its release. It was everything on edge and uneasy. 

She was going to be early to Charms again, but especially (and embarrassingly) so today. She was always the first one there and the only one on time, despite it being a N.E.W.T.-level class. Flitwick was especially lenient with his high-level students, often complaining about how each day teaching first years inched him closer and closer to insanity (“I tell them  _ exactly _ how to do the  _ simplest _ things-- _ Lumos _ , for Merlin’s sake, and they set their desks on fire. I just don’t know how you can do that on accident!”). She had even read ahead of what they were supposed to do during class today, even already knowing its contents from a separate reading. The next two hours wouldn’t be anything of importance--just a dreary sky with nothing notable except for the gnawing, aching pain in Hermione’s chest that told her she was missing out on something key. Sitting still for more than a few minutes sounded infuriating. She hoped Flitwick would find her something to do. Perhaps something unfamiliar, for once. 

As she kept walking, the smell of the last bits of lunch faded to greet the sharp scent of a dewy chill. A small droplet found itself on her flushed cheek, but nothing more. Hermione wiped at it with an unrelenting irritation.  _ Damn this day. _

At some point, she could hear footsteps mimicking her own. They were ahead, maybe just turning out of the East Wing. She skipped half of a step, making an effort to give each their separate rhythm. It would bother her to be in sync.

Almost immediately, the steps stopped. Just as quickly, they sped.

Now she was curious. Instead of walking into the Charms doors, she rounded the corner fast enough to get a quick glimpse of whoever she had apparently startled. She saw the end of a robe flick around the stone-walled corner.

The footsteps quickened. So did hers. Again, the stranger’s pace increased in response. Whoever this was. . . they did not want to be seen. Her heart felt satisfied; she was finally putting her nervous energy to use. 

Hermione kicked off her shoes. 

With a set determination that she had barely any reason for (save that this was a distractor from that unrelenting pull in her chest), she sprinted down the hall in silence and slid around the next corner. The footsteps had stopped, and they turned to see their pursuer. 

Malfoy looked shocked to see her. 

Hermione didn’t exactly know what brought her to ask where he was going.

“It’s none of your business, Granger,” he said. 

When Malfoy turned to continue down the long and torchlit hall, Hermione noticed that he was toying with something in his hand. “What’s that?” she asked.

“What’s  _ what _ ?” He spun to face her, irritated. 

“In your hand. Behind your back.”

He paused, then gingerly held up a half-eaten apple. He gave her a look as if to say  _ Is that all?  _ Still, Malfoy did not have a good poker face. Interestingly, his sharp features gave way to a sallow look and a puffy reddening around the eyes. Their steel-gray color was more noticeable in the dusky hall. Torchlight flickered in them, and Hermione could see that they were glossy. Faded. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be. . . somewhere?” Hermione asked. Malfoy was never in this wing before her Charms class, no matter how early she was. She would have noticed if he had been.

“Aren’t you?” he said.

“Charms.”

“Charms doesn’t start for another half hour.” 

She wondered if she should walk closer to hear him better, for his voice was low and gravely. Would this give her the weaker or more dominant position in the conversation? Both seemed equally probable. 

“So?”  _ That was lame _ . She resolved to take a few steps forward. To her surprise, Malfoy did the same. “How do you know that?” she added. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” These questions irritated her. She considered walking away, but the look in this boy’s eyes convinced her otherwise. She had already resolved to not tell Harry about this interaction, no matter what it entailed. He had dreamt up enough outrageous suspicions about Malfoy to last him the rest of their sixth year. 

She hated that Harry did that. 

To her, the boy in front of her was more complex than the constant maliciousness that he presented to the world. She often attributed him to the product of his family, and did her best to let this heal the blows that she suffered from his daily abhorrence. And, for all that Malfoy was, he still was not his father. Yet. For that, Hermione was grateful.

“Where were you? Just now?” she asked, softening her tone.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“If it doesn’t matter, then why can’t you tell me?”

Something in Malfoy broke and faded. His shoulders sunk, and he unclenched his fist around the apple. 

“The Room of Requirement,” he said, in a hurried whisper that bordered on silence.

Hermione froze. She hadn’t been expecting an answer, nevermind  _ that _ answer. Her mind went through a hundred questions, but all she asked was, “Why?” The word, with no specific intention on her part, had an air of pity. 

Suddenly, Malfoy was barreling toward her, and Hermione barely had time to react. She turned on her heels but, forgetting she only had socks on, was forced to regain her balance. It was enough of a stop for him to reach out and grab her robes at the neck.

He dragged her along the hall at an incredible speed, and the distinct mix of sweat and cologne pierced Hermione’s nostrils. Her desperate attempts to slide out of her robes almost made it easier for him to shove her into the empty Charms class and shut the heavy door with a quick, muted spell. 

He immediately thrust her shoulder to the wall, his slender fingers gripping it tightly, and with his other hand brought his wand to her neck. Hermione’s breaths were shallow and taut; she was just now beginning to comprehend what was happening. Panic gripped her throat. 

“Have you been watching me?” he demanded, an unnerving anguish seeping from his voice. Hermione could smell his breath; it was hot and minty. 

“No, no! Why on Earth would I be watching y--”

“Have you seen me? Going in and out of there. . . Did you see me?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I haven’t! I swear!”

Malfoy’s eyes scanned her face in desperation. “Then why were you here? Why are you so early?

Hermione detected his fear, and suddenly didn’t feel her own anymore. She  _ did  _ pity this boy. 

“I’m always early,” she whimpered. 

It took him a few seconds of shaky, heavy breathing for him to drop his wand. “Of course you are,” he said. The snarky comment was a hint of the usual Malfoy. 

They stood there for a moment--his hand on her shoulder, her arms held up to her chest. Soon, she closed her hands around his wrist and guided it away from her. 

To Hermione’s surprise, Malfoy spoke first. And it was something strange. “You punched me,” he said, heat rising in his face. “Last time we were. . . close. Right between the eyes.”

“You deserved it,” she said, ignoring the awkward reference to their proximity to each other. She didn’t mind it; she felt powerful, as if they were evenly matched but couldn’t have sensed it from a distance.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Those words looked odd coming from his mouth, thin-lipped yet without his usual sneer. “For dragging you in here.” He started toward the door again. 

“Don’t.” The words escaped Hermione’s mouth before she could even think to say them. “Tell me what’s going on. Why are you afraid of being followed?”

His neck bent up to the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut, as if in pain. Malfoy let out a sigh, and for the first time, Hermione realized how cold it was in the classroom, for his breath had escaped as a brief fog.

“I can’t tell you,” he said after a while. It was honest. And still, Malfoy did not leave. It was like he was begging her to keep asking questions; begging her to find out what was going on inside his head. Hermione’s heart fluttered. Was she going to finally dig beneath the surface?

“It’s something about what happened at the Ministry, isn’t it?”

Malfoy’s nostrils flared. “You  _ don’t _ understand.” Anger bubbled in his voice again. It was amazing how he could switch from someone pitiful to someone feared in a moment’s notice.

“I want to,” Hermione said in earnest.

“You  _ can’t _ .”

“I could.”

Hermione felt herself falling deep into a longing--a desperation to understand the inner-workings of the person standing in front of her. She had been right to silently defend Malfoy in her mind after all of these years; there was something else left to unlock.

He clearly could not help it when he began to cry. 

It started as a single, briefly withheld tear escaping down his nose. At first, there was a set determination in him to avoid further vulnerability; he pressed his hands to the large wooden door, ready to leave and never think of this moment again, Hermione was sure. But he was weak, and shaking, and could not push it open more than a few inches. In reaching for his wand for aid, his body gave. He collapsed to the floor in a sob.

Hermione wasn’t sure what to do as Malfoy broke down in front of her. She stepped lightly forward, grazing his shoulder with the tip of her finger. He shoved it away and yelped like she had touched him with a hot iron. 

“I can’t,” he insisted. Even as they met eyes, Hermione knew that he wasn’t speaking to her. There was a haze in his stare, a pleading in his words.

He turned his face away again. Just the lining of his profile was traced by a soft glow from the window, as if painted into Hermione’s eye by an inspired artist. The glow waxed and waned as his lips parted to say, “I have to.”

Lowering herself to her knees, Hermione joined him on the floor. She thought of his normal image: haughty, dickish confidence, enough to make her consider leaving him to his misery. But it was this exact misery that begged her to stay. Her own misunderstood torment weaved and knotted and danced with his. As thunder erupted from outside the castle and rain began to drum on the windows, Hermione resolved to be completely, entirely, unabashedly invested in what agonized Malfoy. No, not Malfoy.

__ “Draco,” she whispered, and her warm touch crept onto his shoulder again. He let it happen. They slid their way down his back, and another small, soft hand met his chest. Hermione’s arms began to wrap around his shoulders, and her fingertips just barely met each other at his back. Draco was still for a long time; he barely let out a breath. But the longer she stayed, the more his body sunk into her embrace. Hermione felt an overwhelming wave of relief wash over her when he gave in completely, and his own arms found themselves around her, too. 

And it felt like the start of something. 

__


End file.
